CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
The manor is colder than I remembered. Or maybe I am just colder now—still tired from being dragged out of sleep before sunrise and summoned here by the Warden, numb in places that used to feel everything too deeply.
Mirrors line the walls, one-way glass that lets the ghosts watch without being seen. A sleek chair sits in the center of the room, no restraints this time, no pretense of kindness either. Just sterile silence, and the kind of stillness that makes your skin prickle.
I am alone.
Or so I thought.
The door opens behind me with a soft hiss. No footsteps. No greeting.
Just the slow, steady click of a boot against concrete. One…two…three.
Then silence.
I don’t turn around. I don’t need to.
Because I see it in the reflection—
That porcelain mask.
The Warden’s.
Not quite flawless. White. Empty-eyed and somehow perfect in its cruelty.
It takes everything in me not to recoil.Everything I’ve learned not to fold into myself.
Instead, I shift my weight. Turn slowly in the chair and tilt my head like I’d been taught.
My gaze flicks up through my lashes.
“You’re late,” I say, voice soft and laced with teasing defiance. “I thought the Warden didn’t like leaving his toys unattended for too long, sir.”
He says nothing.
But I see the way his head tilts, just a fraction. Assessing. Curious.
My heart pounds harder.
Whoever is behind the mask, I don’t know.
I can’t tell by his build or the way he moves—Shoomaker and Montgomery are both too skilled at slipping into the same shape when it suits them.
And even though I’m the one who appointed Shoomaker as Warden…
I’m no longer sure what that title even means when it’s worn like this.
Maybe that’s the point. To strip away anything familiar. To make it so I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins—and to remind me I’m not meant to.
But if they want performance?
Fine.
I stand, slow and fluid, the way he likes.
The way they’ve trained me.
Then I walk—no, glide—across the floor until I am only inches from him.
“Don’t you want to see how good I’ve gotten, sir?” I murmur, eyes on the mask, not the man beneath it.
His chest rises just slightly.
I let my hand trail up the center of his chest, featherlight, just enough to tease. I stand on my toes, lips brushing the chin of the mask.
“I remember how you like it. How you used to say I was your favorite little plaything.”
His breath hitches.
Got him.
I smile, sick and sweet. “I can be better now. I can be everything you want me to be. Quiet. Obedient. Pretty when I cry because they like it when I cry, right?”
My fingers reach the back of his neck. Slide through his hair.
He doesn’t stop me.
He doesn’t move.
I start to sink down to my knees, eyes locked on the mask, my hands trailing down his chest and stomach. The moment my knees bend, his hands shoot out and grip my arms hard, yanking me back up.
“No,” he growls, voice rough and strained. “Stop.”
The raw edge in his tone only makes me want it more. I can feel how hard he is, how tightly wound. He’s fighting it.
I lean in closer instead, pressing my body against his, lips brushing the edge of his jaw just below the mask.
“Starling,” he warns again, harsher this time, fingers digging into my arms. “I said stop.”
But his voice cracks with arousal, and his cock twitches against my stomach. I smile softly, wickedly, and slowly drag one hand down his body until my palm cups the thick, obvious bulge straining against his pants. I squeeze gently.
He hisses through his teeth, hips jerking forward into my touch d
“Fuck… I said no,” he groans, but his grip on my arms loosens, betraying him. His breathing is ragged now, almost desperate. “You’re going to ruin me if you keep this up.”
I stroke him slowly through his pants, looking up at the mask with pure teasing heat in my eyes.
“Then let me ruin you, Sir.”
“Starling,” he growls louder, the sound deep and ragged. “Quit.”
The word hits like a whip.
I blink up at the mask.
He stands there, breath heavy, hands still on me, but he isn’t pulling me closer. He isn’t playing the game anymore.
My breath catches in my throat.
Then his tone shifts—low, serious, measured. “That was…impressive. Your performance. The way you flipped into that role so easily.”
I stare at the mask. “You trained me well.”
“I didn’t train you,” he says. “They did.”
My lips part. Whoever he is…that sounds more like Shoomaker than Montgomery. But I can’t be sure.
“You play the part so well but this isn’t the moment for that.”
His hands let go.
“Why?” I ask. “Isn’t this what they want?”
“No. Not yet.”
He steps back. His body is still tense.
“When the buyers come, they won’t believe a girl who’s too eager. Too perfect. It reeks of control, and they’re predators. They don’t want the ones who’ve already been broken in. They want to break them themselves.”
I swallow hard. “So what do you want from me?”
“Obedience. But not too much. Submissive, not trained. Scared, but willing.”
My mouth goes dry.
He takes another step back. “There will be others. Other girls. They'll be watching how you act with them. How you act with me. If you assert yourself, they’ll see through the setup. If you flirt like that again—” He pauses. “They’ll think you’ve already been claimed. And they’ll challenge it.”
“But I thought you were going to claim me as your wife, sir.”
The mask tilts again.
Then he reaches up slowly and removes it.
Shoomaker.
Of course.
His eyes are dark with something I don’t want to name.
“You were too good at that,” he says, voice husky now that it isn’t filtered. “Don’t ever play like that again unless I make you.”
“I’ll do what I have to,” I whisper.
Shoemaker nods, but he doesn’t look away. His gaze burns into me, dark and unrelenting. For a long moment, the cold mask he usually wears slips completely.
His hand lifts, and his knuckles brush my cheek with a tenderness that makes my breath catch — a rare glimpse of the man beneath the steel.
“Hang in there, little survivor,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “This is almost over.”
“Why?” I whisper, heart pounding. “Why do you call me that?”
He closes any gap between us, his large hand sliding to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair as he pulls me firmly against him. He tilts my chin up with his thumb so I have no choice but to meet his intense eyes.
“Because you are mine to protect,” he says, voice deep and fervent. “I pulled you out of that hellhole myself. I saw in the photos and the files what they did to you…and I watched you fight like hell to survive anyway. You didn’t just endure it, Starling—you rose above it. You rebuilt yourself.”
His grip on my neck tightens possessively, almost bruising, as his other hand cups my face.
“Every day I spent with you after the compound…you changed me. You made a dead man feel something again. And I didn’t want to be another scar on your soul. I walked away because I was terrified I’d break you all over again. I thought staying away was the right thing to do.”
He leans down, forehead resting against mine, breath warm on my lips.
“But I never stopped thinking about you. Not for one damn day. As Daya. As Starling.” His voice drops to a possessive growl. “As my little survivor.”
His thumb strokes my bottom lip slowly, passionately.
“You belong to me in ways no one else will ever understand. And when this is finally over… I’m never letting you go again.”
Then, as if it physically pains him, Shoomaker slowly lets go of me. His hands slide away from my neck and face. The warmth disappears.
He takes a step back, then another. The softness in his eyes vanishes as he reaches for the mask. He puts it back on with steady movements, becoming the Warden once more.
“Go shower and prepare for later today, Starling,” he says.
Then he turns and walks out, leaving me standing there with the ghost of his presence still burning on my skin.
And I am left alone in the glass box, preparing in my mind to be something they can sell, something they can offer up like bait to men who’ve long forgotten what humanity looks like.
But this time, I’m not prey.
I am the trap.